


The Inquisitor and the Wall

by demonbrained_knobstockings



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-16
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-06-02 15:49:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 11,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6572254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demonbrained_knobstockings/pseuds/demonbrained_knobstockings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which we find that our heroine, Effie Trevelyan, isn’t quite yet the fierce dagger-wielding, Corypheus-smiting rogue sung about in taverns across the land. Oh yeah, and then there's also this gruff Warden to figure out... </p><p> <em>(more lighthearted than darkhearted; Problem Bear-galore; less smut / more build-up than anticipated / intended, but hopefully the good bits make up for it…)</em></p><p>
  <em>**Blackwall character arc spoilers**</em>
</p><p>
  <em>(*please note that invisibility potions have longer durations than found in-game)</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **In which we find that not all Heralds are born battle-ready**

_Crumby demon-brained, Chantry-licking knob-stockings…_

Thus were the gentle thoughts flowing through Lady Effie Trevelyan’s mind as she crouched behind a row of trees, peeking out as Cassandra, Solas and Varric tidily dispatched a small encampment of bandits. She fought a wave of nausea at the sight of Cassandra’s longsword finding its way through the last bandit’s innards. 

“You can come out now.” The Seeker's voice did nothing to make Effie want to emerge back into the open, the clipped words just a shade too…what? Condescending? Disdainful? Whatever it was, Effie was content to hunker down just a bit longer. 

“Thinking deep thoughts, kid?” 

With an unladylike squawk, Effie tumbled backwards. She then glared upwards. 

“As a matter of fact, I am,” she said. “I was just wondering what I heartily dislike more – demons, bandits, rogue templars, or rebel mages.” 

Varric snorted. “Come to any conclusion?” 

“It varies. Right now?” She watched Solas _poof_ something sticky off his staff. “Definitely bandits.” 

“Come on, kid,” said Varric, nudging her elbow affectionately with his heavy crossbow, “you’re doing great! All we need to do now is come to some arrangement.” 

Effie pushed herself to her feet, brushed off some leaves, then paused. “Arrangement?” 

“See, the way _I_ see it,” said Varric, scratching his stubble, “we caught these guys pretty well unawares. Probably managed to take them out in less than five minutes. Impressive, right?” 

She frowned down at him. “Very. And?” 

“Annnnnnd – well, I couldn’t help but notice that I was able to find you much quicker than I should’ve been able to.” 

In an instant, Effie was upon the dwarf, one hand pressed tightly across his mouth, the green glow of her hand eerily lighting up the broken bridge of his nose. 

“ _Please, Varric!_ ” she hissed. “Don’t say anything!” She cast a desperate look back towards Cassandra, but the warrior was too busy glaring at both the blood on her sword and a map to notice them. 

Solas, however, cast a curious look in their direction. Effie hastily released Varric. 

“Alright, fine,” she muttered. “What do you want – bear hide? Toy soldier? I have about ten of them. Oh! How about a nice ribbon for Bianca?” 

She was rewarded with a raised eyebrow. “What I _want_ is what Cassandra wants, ironically enough. You gotta take the potion, kid.” 

Effie groaned. “It tastes like someone rolled their boogers in sawdust and then dunked the whole chunkitude in vomit.” 

“Now that’s an image.” Varric sighed. “Look, the last thing I want is to sound like a certain friendly Seeker, but in this case I gotta ask -- you’d rather be dead than have a bad taste in your mouth?” 

She stabbed the toe of one boot into the dirt. “I can take care of myself.” 

The dwarf cocked his head to one side, considering. “You’re quick, I’ll give you that. And when there’s time to teach you a few tricks with those pretty little daggers you found in that barrel of cabbages, I’ll take up a banner for your cause. But for now…do me a favor and take the invisibility potion, ok? You’re the only Herald we’ve got.” 

Effie wrinkled her nose. “Fine. But only because you said nice things about my daggers.” 

“That’s my girl! Now – about what you owe me for not ratting on you this time…”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which we indulge in a little exposition**

She was a rubbish Herald, and everyone knew it. Had to know it. Maker knew Augusta Trevelyan had done everything she could to make her youngest daughter worthy of the noble surname, but even _she_ , great lady that she was, had not foreseen this.

In all honesty, the Conclave had not even been a last resort, some last-ditch effort to find some purpose for Effie – it had merely been one iron in the great hearth that was Lady Trevelyan’s noble scheming. 

And who knew? Had Effie’s minor part in representing the family at the Conclave gone well… But it had not gone well. Not well at all. Yet save for a ghostly cry for aid that wisped about the fringes of her mind, quietly terrifying her, she could not for the life of her remember what she had done wrong. 

And now…her left hand seemed to close of its own volition against her chest, the unnatural green glow seeping out between her fingers. And now she was The Herald. There was a cruel quirk of fate in that, one that simultaneously made her want her to throw her head back and laugh and burst into tears. 

She stamped down on the urge to do either.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Effie does a little requisitioning and Cassandra glares at a map**

“ _Where_ exactly did Leliana say the Warden was?” 

Ignoring the dwarf, Cassandra consulted her map for the umpteenth time that morning. 

“I said –” 

“I heard you!” she snapped, crumpling an edge of the map in annoyance. Smoothing it back out, she said in more measured tones, “Her scouts said something about a camp by a lake. We should be getting close to Lake Luthias soon, which I believe is just northeast of our newest encampment. We can be there within the hour – that is, if our Herald would see fit to stop playing gardener.” 

Effie felt the glare, but was happy to leave it at that. Today had been a good day. A good day at the tail-end of a good week, come to that. They had finally managed to not only suss out the main camps of the rogue templars and mages, but also see fit that both groups stopped terrorizing the entire Hinterlands with their bloody feud. Effie, herself, had been successful in discovering the enchanted entrance to the mages’ cave (though Solas naturally was the one to counter the spell). All that, paired with the earlier eradication of the roving bandits – and far fewer rifts in the area – meant the need for “Where’s Effie?” draughts was sorely diminished. 

To make matters even more appealing, it turned out that she could handle Cassandra’s gloom-and-doom far better with her own sunnier disposition, could almost make out the compassion hidden just behind the fierce warrior façade. 

“I’m sorry, Cassandra,” she called out, up to her knuckles in dirt, “should we wait to fill the requisitions? I was under the impression elfroot and spindleweed would be greatly appreciated back at the Crossroads. The sooner the better.” 

She dared a tiny peek over her shoulder. Cassandra stood with hands on hips, one clutching the map, the other poised above the pommel of her longsword. Behind her, Solas watched with his usual faint interest. To her other side, leaning on Bianca, Varric winked. 

Finally, Cassandra let out a breath through her nose. “Of course we should gather what we can. Though we will need to make room in the packs – can you do without some of these toy soldiers?” 

Effie stood, her fingers wrapped around several elfroot stems, clumps of soil weighing their roots down. “Must we leave any?” 

At Cassandra’s raised eyebrow, she added, “I dunno – there’s just something about stealing stuff from jackholes and giving it to the younger refugees.” 

Something in the warrior’s expression softened. “Perhaps you are correct. Let us see what we can accommodate.” She threw a scornful look at Varric. “We could tie some bushels to the crossbow. They will go nicely with the ribbon.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which a Bear growls, shoves, hacks, and glowers his way into the narrative**

“Remember how to carry your shields!” Blackwall barked, pacing in the front yard of the cabin by the lake. “You’re not hiding, you’re holding. Otherwise it’s useless!” 

The three conscripts stood before him. If not for the wooden shields and short axes they held, they would have been no different from their friends in the surrounding villages. Two of them crouched forward in anticipation, their lean muscles betraying the farm work they had so recently abandoned. 

Turning away for a moment, Blackwall caught a stray movement by the trees at the edge of a stone wall, but in the next, he heard a decidedly non-masculine voice call out, “Blackwall? Warden Blackwall?” 

He turned back. There, by the end of a dock, framed by the light of the setting sun, was a very pretty young woman, her arms dripping with freshly ripped-up spindleweed. 

Mystification mixed with dread darkened his voice. “You’re not – how do you know my name?” He stalked towards her and felt a primal satisfaction to see her large eyes widen, her arms clutch the dripping weeds a bit more tightly. 

Then he stood not a foot from her, felt another stab of something primitive from the way he towered above her, his glower a careful burn. “Who sent – ” 

He heard the whistle of the arrow before he saw it. In an instant, his shield was up, snatching the deadly projectile from the air and its intended target, whose eyes went impossibly wider still. 

Shielding the mysterious young woman with his body now, Blackwall took quick stock of the scene. It appeared she had three companions with her, already lining up for combat. The young men with him, however, were looking less enthused about their prospects, even less so when a small group of bandits disengaged themselves from behind the trees by the wall and rushed forward with ugly cries. 

“That’s it – ” said Blackwall harshly, giving the young woman a rough shove so that she stumbled backwards into the relative safety of the dock’s posts. “We’re dealing with these idiots first. Conscripts!” he bellowed. “Here they come!” 

With that, he raised his weapon and charged forward into the clash. Instinct took over, as it always did, hacking and slashing with his sword, his shield thundering into one man and throwing him backwards. 

“You’re dead, bastard!” came an enraged cry. 

The farmers faltered. 

“Hold the wall, men!” he roared. “Make them come to me!” 

It was soon over. One last downward cut, and that was that. Quick. Efficient. Pointless. 

Blackwall stabbed his bloodied sword into the grass, crouched down next to one of the dead men. 

“Sorry bastards,” he muttered. 

He looked up. All three young Hinterlands men stood before him, shaken, but alive. 

He raised himself. 

“Good work, Conscripts, even if this shouldn’t have happened. They could’ve – ” His voice rumbled with suppressed rage over the senselessness of it all. A few trinkets, a few mementos, and now this. Then he caught a shaky intake of breath, the stench of crushed spindleweed. He eased his tone. “Well, thieves are made, not born. Take back what they stole. Go back to your families. You saved yourselves.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Effie realizes how tired she is**

Effie was shaken, huddled on the ground. She had been on the outskirts of every skirmish so far, invisible when absolutely necessary – usually when creeping up to disrupt or close a rift. She avoided watching whenever possible, but still, she could always feel the ground shake with the impact of combat, could smell the corruption of battle, hear the cries of those wounded, made all the more terrible when it came from one of her companions. Yet even when it seemed that demons could smell her fear and moved to track her, something was always there to stop them before they could get too close, whether Cassandra’s sword, Solas’ spell, or an arrow’s true flight from Bianca… 

An arrow’s flight. So close. What was it they said? _A hundred_ yes’s _could be destroyed by a single_ no. Apparently so too could one arrow destroy an entire week’s progress. But because she could not make sense of her almost-death, she tried to make sense of her reprieve. She was here, at the lake, because they’d been looking for the Warden. It had also sounded like the bandits had been looking for him, or at the very least the men with him. And there he had been, larger than life, stronger than death, there to save _her_ life, throw up his shield just so, redirecting that fire in his gaze to those who might do her, a total stranger, harm… there was an aligning of stars on that one, a chain of coincidences that sent a shiver down her spine. 

“You’re no farmer.” 

Oh! Then he had actually _shoved_ her! Reason warred with pride over that one, as the Warden spoke on, his voice still a deep rumble, but without the dark fury. 

“Why do you know my name? Who are you?” 

She looked up, wondering that the sun could shine so brightly off his breastplate when she’d almost been killed. Again. Life goes ever on. And on. And on. Maker, she was tired. 

“I know your name because I’m an agent of the Inquisition.” Because she couldn’t take the intensity of the armor, nor of his gaze, she looked back down into her lap, where a half-dozen spindleweeds lay broken, a little oozey. She continued mechanically: “I’m investigating whether the disappearance of Wardens has anything to do with the murder of the Divine.” 

“Maker’s balls!” thundered Warden Blackwall. “The Wardens and the Divine? That can’t –” 

Effie looked back up, only to be treated to another steely glare, one that swept over her, head to toe. When he spoke again, his tone was half-accusing, half-thoughtful. “No, you’re asking, so you don’t really know.” 

His eyes were awfully blue. Did they turn all stormy like that when he got angry? High cheekbones framed a strong nose that looked as if it had seen its share of knuckles up-close. The rest of his face was hidden by a rather fine beard, less snarled than she would have expected from a man in the wild. It made him look older than he probably was, though neither was he young, not with those faint streaks of grey running through the sable. And he was just so _big_. His shoulders alone were enough to…well, break stuff. He was pacing now, head bowed. 

“First off, I didn’t know they disappeared…” 

Were they still on that? Funny, concern about the Wardens seemed like such a long way off.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Blackwall surprises himself**

“But we do that, right?” he growled down at her. “No more Blight, job done, Wardens are the first thing forgotten. But one thing I’ll tell you – no Warden killed the Divine. Our purpose isn’t political.” 

His anger surprised him. What was this chit to him, and when had it become personal? 

Blackwall was driven out of his thoughts by the reminder that they were not alone. The young woman’s companions were closing in, hovering protectively by her side. As he turned his glower onto them, the dwarf reached down and helped the young woman up, murmuring in reassuring tones as she brushed off bits of spindleweed pulp. The tall Seeker returned his glare measure for measure. The mage, it seemed, was content with mild curiosity. 

Yet, strangely enough, they all seemed to defer to the young woman, who gave an unladylike sniff. 

“Look, we’re not here to accuse. We just need information.” She swiped again at the sticky pulp leaking into her coat. “I’ve only found you. Where are the rest?” 

Blackwall folded his arms across his chest. “I haven’t seen any Wardens for months. I travel alone, recruiting. Not much interest because the Archdemon is a decade dead, and no need to conscript because there’s no Blight coming.” 

Finally, she met his gaze head-on. “And?” 

“Treaties give Wardens the right to take what we need. _Who_ we need.” He gave her a slower once-over, was satisfied by the flush creeping up her lovely neck. He turned to address everyone. “These idiots forced this fight, so I ‘conscripted’ their victims. They had to do what I said, so I told them to stand. Next time they won’t need me. Grey Wardens can inspire, make you better than you think you are.” 

He was again surprised that no one else spoke save for the young woman, who seemed to have overcome her embarrassment with a defiant lift of her chin. 

“Do you have any idea where the other Grey Wardens could’ve gone?” 

He shrugged. “Maybe they returned to our stronghold at Weisshaupt? That’s in the Anderfels, a long way north. I don’t really know. Can’t imagine why they’d all disappear at once, let alone where they’d disappear to.” 

“Why haven’t you gone missing like the rest of them?” 

He narrowed his gaze. “Well maybe I was going to. Or maybe there’s a new directive, but a runner got lost or something. My job was to recruit on my own. Planned to stay that way for months. Years.” 

For a long moment they stood there, glaring at one another. 

Then she made a dismissive note through her nose. “You’re no help. I’m no further ahead than I was.” 

Without another word, she stalked away, back around the lake. Without a word, her companions trailed after her, though not without looks back – three-parts hostile, curious, rueful. 

As they made their way around the docks and muddier regions, silence settled back around Blackwall. A stillness. Just the way he liked it. The way he needed it to be. And just as mystifying that he was now raising his gloved hand to call out across the water. 

“Inquisition!” Though mere shadows against the setting sun, he saw them pause. “Agent, did you say? Hold a moment!” 

With an effortless tug, his sword was out of the ground, back in its scabbard, and he was stomping down the lake’s path towards them, the sun blazing behind them. Then he was upon them, but his gaze was for the young woman – the agent of the Inquistion – alone. 

“The Divine is dead and the sky’s torn.” He circled her slowly until the sunset lit half her face. “Events like these,” he said, somberly, “thinking we’re absent is almost as bad as thinking we’re involved. If you’re trying to put things right, maybe you need a Warden. Maybe you need me.” 

Her hair was golden, pulled briskly back from her face, though some strands had escaped to wisp about her face, threatening to poke her in the eyes. Perhaps that was why they were so narrowed now. 

“The Inquisition needs all the support it can get. What can one Grey Warden do?” 

“Save the fucking world, if pressed,” he growled. “Look, maybe fighting demons from the sky isn’t something I’m practiced at, but show me someone who is. And like I said, there are treaties…maybe this isn’t a Blight, but it’s bloody well a disaster. Some will honor them. Being a Warden means something to a lot of people.” 

There they were, glowering at each other again. 

But then she was extending her tiny hand, saying: “Warden Blackwall, the Inquisition accepts your offer.” 

His enormous paw of a hand swallowed hers. Held it. “Good to hear. We both need to know what’s going on. And perhaps I’ve been keeping to myself for too long. This Warden walks with the Inquisition.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which our Herald makes some decisions**

“Are you sure there can only be four of us on these things?” Effie asked the war table at large. “Seems to me we could get more done if I had more people with me.” 

“Very sure, Herald,” said Commander Cullen on the other side of the schematics. Though the large room was quite warm, Effie couldn’t help but notice that he still wore that dratted fur cloak. She wondered if he slept in it. “The more we limit the number of agents we send out,” he went on, “the more we have available for other missions, and the fewer resources we spend on each.” 

It was a sound argument, fur cloak or no, yet Effie still had the overwhelming urge to stick her tongue out at him. He reminded her too much of her brothers to react otherwise. She wondered if she, in turn, reminded him of his sisters, for one corner of his scarred lips twitched as if he knew her thoughts. 

“In any case, Herald,” said Josephine, “there will be no disgruntled feelings, no matter who you choose.” 

Effie fiddled with the hilt of one of her daggers. _Carrying around toy daggers, worrying about what people think,_ she thought. _Like the child I am._ Why she belonged here with the grown-ups, and why they so far had showed no complaint, she had no idea. In fact, not only had they shown no complaint, but each of her advisors seemed to take their role quite seriously – usually. 

“What if there _are_ hard feelings, though?” 

Leliana and Josephine hid smiles, and Cullen actually snorted. 

“This is the Inquisition, Herald,” Josephine told her gently. “If any of our agents feel the need to put their own self-importance above that of the entire land, perhaps you’re better off without them by your side.” 

Effie braced her palms against the war table, took a deep breath. “And is there a rule that’s something like, ‘What’s said in the War Room, stays in the War Room’?” She gave a hard look at Leliana, who returned it with an enigmatic tilt of her head. 

“Never mind,” she said, straightening. “Here’s what I think. Varric’s naturally out while he’s on the mend – he’s still doing well?” 

Josephine nodded. “He is coming along quite nicely. Apparently this has afforded him much time to write, so it is not so bad.” Her lovely eyes twinkled. “No hard feelings there.” 

“Excellent. Next, then, is Cassandra – I agree with you, Commander. She is clearly invaluable as a trainer to the troops, and if she already told you she’d be comfortable with that arrangement, then so am I – though I will of course be sorry to lose her from the team.” 

“We shall send her your regrets,” said Cullen, making Effie want to stick her tongue out again. 

“Is there, perhaps…” broke in Leliana, “someone whom you are _less_ inclined to have with you?” 

Effie felt the usual disquiet that accompanied the spy master’s ability to sense, and consequently identify, underlying motives. 

She hesitated, then rushed out, “Please don’t think that this has anything to do with how I feel about them personally in any way but I would prefer it if Solas and Vivienne were able to find alternate occupations. Sera, too – she has a terrific laugh, but I’m still trying to decide how much of a liability she might be.” 

“Of course this will be done,” said Josephine smoothly, making a neat little note on her scroll, then paused, quill suspended. “May I inquire if there’s anything in particular that gives you concern, or…” 

“Oh, I don’t think it’s that big a mystery,” said Cullen. “I imagine that it’s probably a tad difficult feeling both the weight of making decisions as Herald of the Inquisition and the strong disapproval of those who don’t necessarily agree with you.” 

Effie shifted uncomfortably, then muttered, “It would be easier if everyone could be happy.” 

“I’m sorry,” he said, his tone most unapologetic, “but are you doing your damndest to save the world rather than pander to the whims of everyone who thinks their opinion matters above that of others? The shame of it!” He shook his head. “No, Josephine is quite right. Better to simply reassign those who are more vocal about their feelings.” 

It took Effie a moment to work out what he had said. 

“ _More_ vocal?” she squeaked. “D’you mean to tell me that no one agrees with me? On anything?” She couldn’t have felt more horrified if Chancellor Roderick had burst through the doors at that very moment stark naked. 

“Nonsense,” said Josephine, already scratching notes on separate matters. “And just to confirm for the next mission, we will be sending you off with the Iron Bull, Dorian Pavus, and, let’s see… ah! Warden-Constable Blackwall. At least until Varric has made a full recovery, of course, and you’ve had more time to vet Sera.” She looked up. “Is this agreeable?” 

“Two seasoned fighters and a mage,” said Cullen, mulling this over. “I have yet to see Blackwall in action, but I understand his stamina is impressive. Herald?” 

Effie clutched the hilt of her dagger. “Yes! I mean, yes, of course that sounds fine thank you for asking.” 

She could feel a flush creeping up her neck. Avoiding the sharp gaze of Leliana, she rushed out, “Is that all then? Can I go now? I should check on Varric.” 

And without quite waiting for an answer, the Herald of Andraste ran out of the room.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Effie rallies her troops**

She found him by the smithy, staring up at the rift in the mountains. 

Dorian and Bull were probably already packing – _packing_ she snorted to herself. As if seasoned fighters were more concerned about folding their armor just so, as opposed to hunting down a good drink and a good… _[fuck]_ … before going a-questing. Andraste’s tits, she truly was an infant amongst adults. And here she was now, considering tiptoeing away before she was noticed. 

Then Blackwall spoke. 

“Maker, look at it. So much easier to ignore when it’s far away.” He turned, arms crossed, still leaning his broad shoulders up against the wall of the smithy. “And to actually walk out of it – to be that close…” 

Strangely enough, Effie was relieved to be talking about the one thing that usually filled her with dread. 

She shrugged. “If I hadn’t been saved by the Inquisition soldiers, I honestly don’t know what would’ve happened.” 

“Inquisition soldiers?” He often sounded torn between two different reactions; this time, it was half-surprise, half-suspicion. “That’s not what I’ve heard.” He tilted his head down at her, considering, those blue eyes ever measuring. “I have to admit, I thought you’d be –” 

“A man? Old? An old man?” 

“Different.” 

“Yeah, well, you’re stuck with me.” 

For a moment, the sounds of Haven filled the space between them – hammer on metal, steel against steel, shouts from the cadets on the training field, Cullen’s answering bellow. 

“Anyway!” Effie finally burst out. “If it works for you you’re needed on the next mission we’re leaving tomorrow at dawn don’t be late.” 

For the second time that day, she bolted.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Effie disappoints Bull**

“One down!” Iron Bull exalted, swinging his great axe high about his horns and flinging demon guts everywhere. “Next!” 

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Effie muttered. Gingerly, she stepped a bit closer to the jagged rift, ensuring that her foot was solidly on the boulder beneath her. Maker, she was never going to get used to be being invisible. 

From below, Bull, Dorian and Blackwall kept the demons occupied, taunting them with war cries and shattered earth. But now she was close enough – the faint tingle in her palm was now an outright open wound, seeping the repulsive green glow. Keeping her feet planted beneath her, Effie raised her hand, concentrating on the rift. The very air around her crackled with fiendish energy. She gritted her teeth, forcing her fingers to remain uncurled. And then it caught. A bolt of power surged up her arm, nearly knocking her backwards. She froze, she burned, but it was working. The green parasite in her hand distorted the rift’s energy, leeching its command over the meadow. Her arm throbbed, the insane pulse in her hand growing stronger and stronger until with a massive cracking and a blinding flash, the rift was gone. 

“Ahhh!” came Iron Bull’s anguished cry. “I was about to get another one!”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Effie tells a joke**

The scene around the campfire that evening was far different than she was used to with her original party. In those days (did they already feel so long ago?) she most likely would have chosen a seat by Varric, and together they would laugh or commiserate or just chat, while Solas wandered off and Cassandra frowned over their next day’s movements. 

Effie sat on her boulder, feet dangling over the edge, watching as the three men in her company took to sizing one another up – apparently the bonds made over the convivial experience of hacking and exploding demons to little bits didn’t last very long. 

For the moment, however, they were all business: Dorian bringing a fire to life with his staff, Bull cleaning a stag for dinner, Blackwall emerging from the forest, his brawny arms untaxed by a heavy assortment of logs. 

“Nice wood,” said Bull. 

“Really?” said Dorian, straightening. “Are we resorting to such puerility already?” 

Blackwood dumped the wood by the fire and disappeared back into the trees. 

“Aww, come on!” said Bull, cheerfully. “That was a good one! It was a good one, wasn’t it, boss?” 

Effie grinned down at him from her perch. “If I say it was, can I help do something?” 

“You may _not_ tell him it was good,” the mage said severely. “But if you’d like to help, try teaching him wit.” 

Bull paused in the cleaning of meat. “Hey, yeah, got any jokes?” 

Effie blushed. 

“That crimson flesh says it all – let’s have it!” 

“Well, okay,” she said sheepsihly, tugging the arms of her tunic over her hands. “Where does Cullen keep his armies?” 

“Uhh…Haven?” 

“In his sleevies!” she said, waving the ends of the stretched fabric about. 

Dorian groaned, but Bull beat the ground with the blunt end of his knife. “Yes! That’s what I’m talking about! I work for a fun boss! Blackwall!” 

Effie’s smile evaporated. 

“Blackwall, get over here, you’ve gotta hear this one!” 

“Hear what?” asked the Warden, returning with the last of the firewood. 

“The joke! Here, boss, tell it –” but then broke off. 

Effie was gone.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Blackwall was paying more attention than she thought**

“Something’s funny about you.” 

Effie looked up, but Bull was pointing a roasted haunch at Blackwall. 

“Oh?” 

“Yeah,” said the Qunari, leaning back on his log comfortably. “You talk about Grey Wardens and honor and sacrifice and griffons, but you’re still not convinced.” 

“Not convinced?” Again with the two-tone. 

“Yes, you know what I mean.” 

Blackwall glowered across the fire. “And you know this because…” 

“I’m a people person.” 

Dorian snorted into his cup. “Why, you sneaky little Herald – you _have_ been teaching him wit!” 

The haunch shifted its menacing angle. “Don’t let it get your skirt into a twist, mage boy.” 

Dorian’s smile vanished. “ _Vishante kaffus!_ I’m not wearing a skirt!” 

“Yeah, well, you trip on that bustling thing, don’t come crying to me.” 

“Oh, yes, that was the first thing on my mind –” 

“WHERE DOES CULLEN KEEP HIS ARMIES!” 

All three men stopped and turned their heads, all three frozen in some form of aggression or another. 

Effie gulped. 

Horrifyingly, it was Blackwall who broke the silence. “His sleevies.” 

Bull roared with laughter. Even Dorian chuckled this time, though it was more likely due to the expression on Effie’s face. 

“Boss! Boss…best joke ever.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Dorian and Bull threaten Effie**

“Dorian! Cut it out, you’re worse than my mother!” 

“Well, perhaps if she’d been worse, you wouldn’t be throwing such a fit over a teeny-tiny potion.” 

Effie nearly stamped her foot, but it only would have furthered Dorian’s case. “Why don't _you_ try it then, and if you don’t make a perfectly horrid face, then I’ll take it without fuss.” 

“Are you guys still bickering about that gross see-through stuff?” asked Bull. He came up behind Dorian and peered over the mage’s shoulder. “I’ll try it if you want, boss. Then I’ll head to the stream where the local ladies bathe…” 

“You’re such a big help, Bull,” she muttered. 

“I could always hold you down while Dorian pours it down your throat.” 

“You – you wouldn’t dare!” 

“Oh, I’m sure he’ll hold your nose while he’s at it,” said Dorian. 

“Yep. That’s how you get the mouth open.” 

Effie began backing away from them. “You both just stay away from me.” 

“Hey, you had your chance to take it voluntarily.” 

Effie whipped out her daggers, still moving away. 

Bull actually laughed. “What’re you gonna do with those? Give me a splinter?” 

Dorian eyed her warily. “She’s in quite the snit. The next round of drinks says she slices the webbing between your fingers.” 

The Qunari whipped his hands behind his back. “So you think she’d fight dirty, huh?” 

Effie felt on the verge of victory. She took one more step back and collided with something very solid. 

“Blackwall!” Dorian called out. “Your timing is impeccable!” 

“Yeah, we need you to hold the Herald down and get her mouth open.” 

Her face on fire, Effie flung herself away from the oh-so-warm blockade behind her, snatched the philter away from Dorian, and chugged the sluggishly clear concoction within. She disappeared almost instantly, but not before she retched directly onto Bull’s boots. 

“Classy, boss,” he muttered. 

“You think that’s nice?” they heard her disembodied voice say from somewhere nearby, somewhat hoarse. “I’m going to build up a tolerance to booger-taste and take it _all the time._ ” 

Bull yelped, grabbing at his left buttock. 

“ _You’ll never be safe again._ ”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Effie falls into a cringe-worthy “helpless” trope, but according to this character arc scribbled on a post-it note, there’s a good chance it won’t happen again, so let us indulge ourselves in the _teensiest_ damsel fantasy while we can **   
>  **( _*please note that there are also some terrific liberties taken with physics and landscape – sorry (not sorry)*_ )**

“Fields of mud,” said Dorian, casting a disdainful look down at his ruined boots. “Well, this is all very pleasant.” 

“Want me to carry you across, Vint?” Bull threw the mage a wide grin. 

Dorian sniffed. “Careful, Ben-Hassrath – I just may take you up on that.” 

Effie rolled her eyes. “Guys. Focus. We need to find the soldiers before the Avvar butcher them. Then you can flirt. Got it?” 

“Sorry, boss.” 

“Yes, please let us move along. The sooner we can make our dashing rescue, the sooner we can be gone from this forsaken bog.” 

Effie felt a large presence just behind her shoulder. 

“When you’re ready, Herald.” 

The shiver that took hold of her was most certainly due to the chilly downpour, thought Effie, shaking herself and slogging ahead through the endless mud of Fisher’s End – certainly nothing to do with the taciturn warrior keeping close to her side. And most definitely nothing to do with his crushed black velvet of a voice, nor the way he addressed her, at once all professional detachment and something…deeper, perhaps darker, something that pooled warmly in the pit of her belly and made her thighs press more tightly together as they slogged forward. 

It was not her last shiver that evening. More than once, she slipped on a soggy plank, only to be hoisted upright by an ironclad arm, the strength of which was cause for much scolding in her head. 

_Next time you’re being held prisoner by a bunch of crazy barbarians from the mountains, it will serve you right if the person coming to your rescue is delayed by constant thoughts of hairy brutes – Herald, my ass…_

Despite Effie’s unsure footing, the weather, Dorian’s grumblings, and the very reason for their mission, however, they were quite lucky. As Scout Harding had instructed, as long as they kept to the path and did not stray into the water, the corpses kept their distance. 

They squelched past a hut a while later. 

“Bull, remind me to check that out on the way back.” 

“Check? You mean ransack?” 

She quirked a brow back at him. “Only if there’s no one around to –” 

“Watch it!” No sooner did Blackwall bark this order, then Effie hit an oozy patch of slime and went down hard on her rump. 

Her face on fire, she ignored a large offered hand and stumped to her feet, her ass sore, her pride utterly demolished. 

“How ya feeling, boss?” 

“Like I want to go pick a fight with a corpse.” 

“Yes, well,” said Dorian, “here comes your chance now.” 

From across the wide strip of deep water before them, they could just make out a motley number of undead archers shambling around. 

Thunder rumbled. 

Again, Effie felt the large, warm presence by her shoulder. 

“There’s a bridge just over there.” 

Effie shivered. “So there is.” 

“You think it’ll hold us, boss? It’ll be a long fall if it doesn’t.” 

“I suppose it doesn’t look any more ramshackle than the rest.” She sighed. “Let’s go.” 

If possible, these planks were even more slippery than those previously traversed. Effie took her time in placing her boots on each rung of the ladder leading upwards. When she reached the top, she paused. 

“Maybe we cross one at a time,” she called down to the others, rain pelting her face. 

She heard Dorian shout something back at her, but she was already moving across the suspended bridge, keeping her balance steady as when she took invisibility potion. 

Halfway across, she turned back. “I think we’re good! Seems sturdy enough to –” 

There was a booming crack across the sky. Effie ducked reflexively, just as a jagged bolt of lightning struck the bridge right before her. There was another ugly crack, and suddenly Effie was plunging down into the filthy water below. 

The water swallowed her, but only just – the muddy bottom was shallower than it appeared from above. Effie fought to break the surface, her light armor weighing her down for once as it became saturated with dark water. 

All at once, fresh air blasted her face, along with rain. Despite her coughing and spluttering, Effie heard her name shouted from above. It was difficult to see with all the mud coating her face. More wood splintered from above. There was a mighty splash quite close to her, some cursing, then an iron grip had her around the waist. 

“I’ve got her! Dorian, Bull – find another way across! We’ll meet on the other side!” 

“The water, Blackwall! What about the corpses?” 

“I’ll handle them, just get going!” Blackwall’s hold on her shifted, then tightened once more. “Are you all right, Herald?” 

Coughing up another lungful of mud, Effie tried to move forward, then stopped, horrified by the rather ridiculous cliché she was turning out to be. “My leg – it’s stuck.” 

Blackwall swore. “Not you,” he growled, seeing her face. “Them.” 

Effie tried to see through the mud coating her eyes. Shambling towards them through the murky water were five, six corpse archers. 

“Get low!” Instantly, Blackwall’s shield was up. “Shift your weight towards me,” he said, grunting as the first volley of arrows stabbed his shield. “I need to go under – can you hold this for a moment?” 

At her nod, Blackwall took her hand and threaded it through the leather strap. 

“Only for a moment,” he murmured, and then plunged beneath the water. 

Effie staggered a bit beneath the weight of the shield, but did not fall. Instead, she stole a look around the edge of it. It was a mistake. The corpse archers were shambling closer, their slimy bones cutting the water more easily than bogged-down armor. 

She felt something immense encircle her leg, tighten. There was a strange, sucking sensation, and then she was free. 

Blackwall’s head broke the surface, shaking like a dog’s, dark hair plastered to his face, beard dripping. 

“Good?” 

She tested her leg, nodded. 

“Let’s go.” 

Taking the shield from her, he moved between Effie and the oncoming undead. He wrapped his free arm around her once more, helping her slog out of the muck and onto the muddy bank on the other side. 

“I don’t see the others – they must be crossing farther down. Quickly now,” he murmured into her ear. “Let’s put some distance between us and the water.” 

Together, they staggered forward across the soggy landscape. It was some minutes later when Blackwall realized he was more or less carrying Effie. 

“Herald?” 

Her lips were blue. “B-Blackwall?” 

He cursed. 

“Need to get you warm.” He looked around. “Maker’s balls, this fucking place… over there.” 

Giving up any pretense of helping her along, Blackwall shouldered his shield, then hoisted Effie into his arms. 

“D-don’t worry,” she chattered against his neck, “I c-can walk.” 

“I know you can, my lady, just felt like carrying your dead weight around.” 

“Knob-b-head – don’t think-k that I c-can’t – I c-can…” 

As her head finally gave in and leaned down against the Warden’s shoulder, all wet leather and cold chain, she had a funny thought – Cullen was right; Blackwall did have impressive stamina.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which we brush up ever-so-slightly against the good bits**

By the time they had made camp beneath a rocky outcrop, all funny thoughts had fled Effie’s mind. It was all she could to not shatter into a million freezing pieces as Blackwall threw a fire together. 

As if he could read her thoughts, he looked up. His expression was dark. 

“W-what?” 

“I’m not getting executed because the Herald froze to death on my watch,” he said gruffly. “Get out of those wet clothes.” 

“Y-you get out of them.” 

“Joke about it if you must, but so help me I will.” 

“G-grump!” Unwrapping her arms from around her middle, Effie reached for her belt. Then frowned. 

“B-balls.” 

“What is it?” 

“M-my f-fingers…” 

Blackwall frowned back. Then, quite expressionless, he rose and moved towards her. 

“Let me.” 

“N-no, I c-can do it, j-just…” 

“Don’t be a stubborn ass.” He batted her hands out of the way. 

“Y-you’re s-stubborn ass…” she muttered, watching his large fingers work the sodden leather free from the metal. Everything was so cold. She barely felt him remove the belt, nor when those large, large fingers began working the buttons free from her over tunic. 

But his eyes – his stormy eyes… 

The rest of his face was a mask as he worked her clothes off, one soggy, muddy piece at a time. His movements were mechanical, though she drowsily supposed that no one of flesh and blood could manipulate their limbs like that when it was so – so cold. 

She felt something warm and dry go around her. 

She heard more movements, more clinks of a belt being removed, boots being kicked off. 

And then she was wrapped up in something even cozier. Something firm pressed her backwards. Gratefully, she rested her cheek against something that was firm, warm, and slightly scratchy. Her nose itched. She rubbed it against the surface, sneezed, then fell into a deep sleep.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which legend of Effie’s ladylike qualities grows**

Blackwall awoke to the sounds of low voices and stifled laughter. Cracking an eye open, he saw Bull and Dorian sitting across the fire, tearing at jerky with their teeth and passing a canteen between them. 

Bull caught his eye, winked. “You made it out all right, I see.” 

Blackwall gave a short nod. “You, too.” 

Dorian snorted. “Your definition of ‘all right’ is years away from mine, I can assure you. Do you see what happened to my coat? On second thought, don’t – it’s too painful.” 

Bull laughed. “I’ve never seen you so disheveled before. It’s a look.” 

“It is _not_ a look. Not one I intend to repeat, at any rate. Our delicate Herald will just have to find herself another patsy to drag along the next time she wants to come to this... _place_.” 

Blackwall attempted to shift into another position, found his way impeded by a lump of a young woman. He frowned. “Delicate?” 

“Well,” said Bull reasonably, “we weren’t keeping our voices down for _that_ one.” 

At this, Effie gave a tremendous snort in her sleep, nearly punching Blackwall in the face as she flopped over in his lap. 

“We heard you from about a mile off,” Dorian added. “The snoring…we thought it was you.”


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which we indulge in a bit more exposition, and then skip over a bunch of boring [read: pivotal-but-no-room-for-fun] stuff**

It may come as a shock to my gentle readers, but Lady Effie Trevelayn, as it were, had never been initiated into the mysteries of physical pleasure. Not a peck on the cheek, not a brushed hand against hers, not a rough whisper in the dark, not a fumble up her shirt, nor a pinch on her bottom. That’s not to say that she was completely ignorant of such pleasures, simply a stranger to them. 

Either way, it’s fair to say that although she had spent an evening wrapped in nothing but a blanket and a certain Warden’s more-than-capable embrace, the full implications resulting from such a soggy event were perhaps lost on her. (To also be fair, she had also been suffering from a rather severe chill, but still… she looks both ways before thinking _fuck_.) 

On the other hand, it may come as somewhat less of a shock to learn that our more-than-capable Warden, as it were, was _not_ a stranger to such intimacies. Not that he was a husband to them, either – more, the handsome, handy neighbor from whom you occasionally request a service, for which he gruffly accepts a service. 

It is therefore all-around safe to say that when Effie and her companions returned to Haven, rescued soldiers in tow, she remained blissfully unaware that anything perhaps exciting had taken place in the Fallow Mire (other than the fact that there had been _two_ rather dashing rescues), and Blackwall…well, Blackwall wasn’t. Nor, for that matter, were Bull and Dorian – though, for their part, they were a bit engrossed in their own circling and sparring to bother much with anyone else’s. 

And so Effie and Blackwall continued in their supremely disparate co-existences. There were more missions, more occasions in which they were quite literally heaved into very close physical proximity, Blackwall using his body to shield hers from harm, more occasions in which the Warden found himself nearest to her as she attempted to scramble atop her charge, and as he helped hoist her into the saddle, his hands would linger, or stray to rest absentmindedly for a moment upon her thigh, but then with a cheerful “Thanks, Blackwall!”, Effie would be off – though not without the somewhat invigorating feeling of having a smoldering gaze follow her galloping path from the stables. 

Quite suddenly, where Blackwall wanted nothing more than to drag the delicate Herald into the smithy, bend her over the work bench, yank down her smalls and vigorously pound into her pert backside, Effie had a rather massive case of hero-crush. It was now Blackwall’s turn to be disarmed by a bright look, a beguiling smile, both so charmingly innocent that he made himself as scarce as possible when not protecting her from demons and bandits so that he might glower in deep thought at one of his namesakes. 

Maker’s balls, indeed. 

 

And then Corypheus came to Haven. So did his blasted archdemon or dragon or whateveryouwantedtocallit. 

And one thing led to another led to Effie taunting the mad, twisted foe long enough for everyone else to escape, which led to snow collapsing upon Haven in unforgiving volumes, which led to Effie somehow ending up trudging through endless miles and miles of frozen land… 

…Which somehow led to her becoming Inquisitor. 

To steal a phrase, _well, shit_.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Effie fancies a sandwich and ends up alone on the ramparts**

Effie was in a daze. Her memories since staggering out of a blizzard and into the rag-tag camp for the survivors of Haven were a blur, and anything that wasn’t, she kept firmly shut away in some dingy, back-alley part of her brain – mainly Mother Giselle’s song and Cassandra’s trick in getting her in front of literally everyone so that she couldn’t politely turn-down becoming Inquisitor. Of the Inquisition. Because obviously she was the most qualified. _Snort_. 

And not to say anything against her wonderful, lovely advisors – for without them, the world would surely burn – but she was getting rather sick of seeing their faces. Hour after hour, day after day, they bent over the war table, moving little pieces back and forth, and always looking up to Effie for final say. She was tired. So bloody tired. And she missed the faces of those that had grown so essential to existence over the past months – Varric and his tales, Bull’s tough sweetness, Dorian’s charm… 

One warm afternoon, after a long morning of toiling across war schematics, Leliana looked up to find Effie’s head nodding forward. 

“As I was saying,” said Cullen, “I really do think we’d be better off positioning our troops over here in —” 

Leliana cleared her throat. “Perhaps it might be a suitable time to take a small break. Inquisitor?” 

Effie’s head snapped up. “ _Hngh_ -I agree with Josephine.” 

“Hurtful,” muttered Cullen. 

Smiling, Josephine walked around the large table to open the doors. 

“We were just saying, Inquisitor, that perhaps we take a moment to stretch our legs, maybe get a bite to eat.” 

Effie stifled a yawn. “What, already? Well, if we must.” 

She glanced down at Cullen’s pieces on the table. “Why’re you putting troops there?” Frowning, she nearly bumped into one of the open doors, and left. 

She made her way down the long, crumbling hallway that led to Josephine’s office, which in turn led into the main hall, taking little hops over the scattered rubble. 

When she reached the main hall, she paused, taking a furtive look about. It really was coming along, was no longer the completely derelict cavern it had been when they’d first arrived. People were milling about, chatting, as if it were the thing to do. 

Closing the door as softly as she could behind her, she skirted the edge of the hall, head down. She made it outside unrecognized, taking the steps two at a time, down to the worn dirt path leading to the tavern; surely there’d be a friendly face there – 

“Inquisitor!” 

Effie’s heart leapt. She could count on one hand the number of voices that could use that title and not make her wish for the earth to swallow her whole. 

She spun, beaming. “Blackwall!” 

The Warden was standing by the edge of the scuffed path, arms crossed, staring up at the sun-washed towers. 

She trotted over to him. “Hi!” 

Well, all right, _now_ she wanted the earth to swallow her. 

But he didn’t seem to mind. While he didn’t exactly smile, his eyes crinkled up in the corners. 

“Your jailors let you out, then?” 

“Barely – I’ve gotta go get something stuck in my teeth to prove to Josie that I’m actually eating. Fancy a sandwich?” 

Blackwall’s critical appraisal of her thin frame made her flush, but then he nodded. “In a minute. Come. Let’s walk the ramparts first. I want to examine our fortifications.” 

Effie felt a small flutter in her chest. It had been ages – back in Haven really – since the last time she’d been alone with the Warden. That wasn’t to say that she hadn’t dreamt about those meetings since, or concocted new ones in her head late at night… 

Blackwall led her up the stone steps of the ramparts. From up here, one could still hear the clamor of Skyhold, but it was background noise to the wind whipping across the large broken stones. 

She watched him lean, as he always did, against one such stack of crumbling rocks, his gaze fixed upon the distant mountains crossing the horizon. The view of the mountains was spectacular, it was true, though nothing in comparison to a strong, brooding profile. 

“We’ll be able to see Corypheus coming from miles away.” 

She thrilled at the deep velvet of his voice, more caress than speech. 

“He won’t get the better of us again,” she said. It was odd to hear herself say it aloud – she had promised herself she never would, as if doing so would make it untrue. 

She was not prepared for that gaze to turn back on her quite so forcefully. 

“We lost good soldiers that day, Lady Trevelyan – loyal men and women.” 

Effie opened her mouth: “I didn’t mean –” 

“And when he came after you, he really made it personal.” Blackwall pushed away from the stones. “I swear I’ll take that twisted bastard down, even if I have to die to do it.” 

The flutter was back. Rather breathlessly, Effie rushed out, “I didn’t mean that the sacrifices made in Haven were in vain. I just – I can’t bear losing anyone else to Corypheus.” She looked down, lashes brushing against rosy skin. “Especially not you.” 

For a moment, Blackwall said nothing. Then: “You can’t afford to think I’m special. I’m a soldier, no different than any other lost at Haven.” 

Effie felt the flush creeping up her neck. She knew how it must look, the green girl pursuing the big Warden, but she couldn’t stop herself. To her boots, she said, “You _are_ special.” 

She heard his rumbling sigh. “I am fond of you, it’s true, but we can’t let this go any further. This – whatever you want this to be – is impossible.” 

The flush was growing hotter, but she gave a stubborn lift of her chin, finally meeting his hard gaze. “Why? Why is it impossible? I know you have feelings for me.” 

“My lady, _don't_.” There was no gentleness. “You’re the Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste.” He jabbed a finger out across the ramparts. “Even now, there are people flocking to your banner, ready to serve, to die…we must remain focused on the task at hand.” 

He turned away. 

Effie scrambled for thought, her throat burning. “But that’s – I’m not what they say I am!” She was nearly choking. “I never asked them to believe! Blackwall –” 

He swung back. “But they _do_. And it’s too late to go back. Whoever you were, is gone. They believe you’re the Herald because they need to. Without that hope, all that’s left is despair. We’re both bound by duty, our lives aren’t ours to live.” His face was a mask. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.” 

And with that, he turned and trudged away.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Effie struggles with rejection**

Effie stood there, alone, on the ramparts, struggling to breathe. Did that just happen? Did she invite a man along for a sandwich, throw herself at him, and then get properly rejected? And while a rational part of her mind whispered that perhaps there was some sense to what he’d said, she couldn’t help but think that he’d used the whole “noble” angle just to turn her down more gently than he could have. 

She hugged her arms to her stomach, trying to keep the tears in. It felt like such a bigger blow than it should be. You ask a man out, he says no, you get disappointed, but you don’t fight to breathe; you don’t act as if the world were suddenly that much closer to ending, as if Corypheus were merely a mild-ish threat. 

If she were honest with herself, she hadn’t felt this devastated after her show-down in Haven. That had been such a surreal experience in and of itself, no time to think, save for _don’t look at the dragon, don’t look at the dragon, keep him yammering_ (in a strange way, she was born for needling bigger, older boys who annoyed her), until the flare appeared. After that, it was just about survival. One step in front of the other. Don’t look ahead. Don’t look behind. Just keep going… 

Now? Now she was numb. Had she been unable to picture that going any other way than Blackwall laughing and sweeping her off her feet, twirling her about? His gaze going all stormy with want, he’d grab her, pin her against a crumbling wall and prove once and for all that his stern lips could also be passionate? Had it not even occurred to her? Was Lady Effie Trevelyan so stuck-up, so blinded by rank and infatuation that she couldn’t fathom such a scenario, that any man she desired shouldn’t immediately fall to the ground at her feet? 

Effie dug the heels of her palms into her stinging eyes. She was being stupid. Whether or not Andraste had any say in the matter, she was the blasted _Inquisitor_ – there would be no tears.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Dorian breaks into Effie's room**

It was one thing to mentally buck-up, however, quite another to force a friendly face for the rest of the day. Dinner had been a disaster, culminating with Sera’s unnatural predilection for sensing weakness and going for the jugular. Effie had stormed from the table like a sullen teenager. 

Now she found herself sagging against the closed door of her chambers. 

_Simple_ , she thought. _I’ll just never come out again._

With a sigh, she pushed away from the door and trudged heavily up the stairs. 

“There’s my little flash fire!” 

Effie gave a yelp and nearly tumbled back down the stairs. 

“Dorian!” She used the railing to haul herself up the rest of the way. “What’re you doing here?” 

The mage was stretched lithely across her bed, toying with the tasseled corner of one of her pillows. 

“Oh, just enjoying your creature comforts,” he said. He looked around, then smiled. “I’ve been feeling rather desolate as of late and realized I hadn’t had my Effie time. You’ve been quite remiss.” 

“Yeah, well,” she grumbled, “sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not in the mood to be anybody’s little flash fire.” 

Dorian laughed. “You wait til now to drop this jar of bees on my head? Darling, you were about ready to see just how capable your daggers were of decapitation this evening.” 

Effie threw herself into a lush chair, scowling. “Please don’t tell me you’re here to finish what Sera started.” 

Shrugging, Dorian tossed the pillow back to join the others. “Not in so many words. It was perhaps a tad unfair of her to needle you with rumors of your…virtue.” 

“Like it’s anyone’s business whether or not I’ve – I thought being Inquisitor would at least spare me _that_. Maybe it will spare me the noose if I strangle her – we could say she was a spy! For double-crossing nobility! Oooo, that would rankle her the most…” 

Dorian laughed again, his smile sharp, but his eyes a shade too understanding. 

She squirmed. “Anyway, thanks for checking on me. I’m fine now.” 

He rolled his eyes. “Darling, I _invented_ ‘I’m fine’. You were clearly upset before dinner. What else is making that mouth of yours pout so prettily?” 

To Effie’s horror, her bottom lip started quivering. She buried her face in her hands. “Dorian, can you please just go?” 

“Not until you talk to me, love.” 

She gave a muffled groan into her fingers. “ _Hnggh--It’snothingIjusttriedtomakemyvirtueBlackwall’sbusinessandhenoblytoldmetofuckoff_.” 

“What was that again?” 

Effie flung herself back into the chair, slouching low, her face blotchy. “I threw myself at Blackwall, Dorian. Up on the _fucking_ ramparts. With the wind in my hair.” 

Dorian raised an elegant brow. “And you’re not in his – well, I’d say bed, but I believe it’s more a bale of hay – right now?” 

Helplessly, she held both arms above her head, let them fall with thuds back against the chair. 

The mage patted the comforter. 

Grumbling again, Effie shoved herself up, trudged over, and flopped next to him. 

They lay there in companionable silence for a moment. 

“Is there something wrong with me, Dorian?” she finally asked, staring up at the flying buttresses. 

“Other than your penchant for hairy lummoxes?” 

She gave a strangled laugh. 

“I suppose one could also make the case that there’s the whole ‘powerful woman’ intimidation factor, but five minutes in your company and it’s clear you grew up sneaking away to play with the kitchen scamps.” 

“They were fun.” 

Dorian sighed. He took the pillow back and began running his fingers once more through the silky tassels. “There’s nothing wrong with you, love. I imagine Blackwall thinks he’s doing the right thing, the idiotic hero.” 

Effie scrunched her face up. “He said he was _fond_ of me. Like a niece.” 

“Well, he is a tad older than you. Though I suppose that’s part of the attraction.” 

She groaned again. “I just want him --” she flapped her hands up and down her torso, “-- on top of me. Is that so wrong?” 

Dorian gave a shout of laughter. He tossed the pillow away once more and joined Effie in stretching out on the bed, arms crossed beneath his head, staring up at the ceiling. 

“From where I’m laying, there is _nothing_ wrong with wanting a big brute on top of you.” 

She snuck a peek at him. “You and Bull?” 

He snorted. “You know…I just don’t know.” He laughed again. “Well, aren’t we the pair. Two pretty, talented, funny, worldly, erudite people and no one to appreciate it.” 

She joined in, suddenly feeling immensely better. She tilted her face up at him again. “Don’t take this weirdly, but you wouldn’t mind staying for a bit, would you?” 

“Darling, you couldn’t kick me out if you wanted to. Your mattress is much more comfortable than mine, and quite worth putting up with your snores.” 

She elbowed him. 

“Besides,” he said, drawing her into the crook of his arm, “let me be seen emerging from your chambers tomorrow morning. As I said, I’m very pretty, and rather good at stirring up jealousies in others.” 

Effie yawned and snuggled up against him. “Thanks, Dorian.” 

Dorian planted a light kiss on the top of her head. “My pleasure, love.”


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which montage!**

The advisors had their heads bent low over the war table, when the doors to the sunlit chamber flung open, and the Inquisitor burst in. 

“I want to learn how to use my daggers,” said Effie, a bit out of breath. 

Cullen shared a look with Leliana and Josephine. “We will of course be more than happy to train you, when there’s a bit more –” 

“There _is_ no time, Cullen,” she said, cutting him off. “Isn’t that the point? What’s going to happen if all my companions fall in battle and I run out of potion?” She looked entreatingly around the room. “I know we all hate to think of the possibility, but if something should happen out there, I think it will be damned helpful if the leader of the Inquisition knows how to protect her own ass.” 

There was another shared look among the advisors. Then Cullen said: “Any specific trainer in mind?” 

“Varric said he’d help. If you can think of anyone else,” said Effie, already running back out of the war room, “we’ll be on the training pitch at dawn!” 

 

“You’re not a warrior!” barked Cassandra, sending Effie sprawling once more to the ground with her shield. “You do not attack from the front!” 

Effie bounced back up, breathing hard, sweat stinging her eyes. 

Varric watched from his perch on a barrel. “You have lighter armor, kid!” he called out. “Use it – feint left then dart around the other side!” 

Cassandra huffed through her nose. “Don’t feint left, Inquisitor, I will be ready for it.” 

Varric laughed. “Well, now you’re ready for her to go right, right?” 

Cassandra turned towards the dwarf, but whatever snarl she had ready for him vanished at the sudden feel of a cold blade at her throat. 

Slowly, the Seeker lowered her sword. “That was…sneaky.” 

Effie backed away from the taller woman, swiping at her brow and leaving a streak of dirt. She looked over her shoulder at the shadowed back corner of the tavern, where Cullen watched, arms folded. 

“Thoughts?” 

He made a noncommittal shrug. “Do it again.” 

 

It seemed like in no time at all, it became normal to find the Herald of Andraste, leader of the Inquisition, sweating on the training pit, her clothes muddied and torn, hurling daggers at straw men and shouting obscenities back at Cullen. 

“You need to be quicker than that, Inquisitor!” he bellowed more than once, watching as Effie practiced flipping backwards. 

“Their weaknesses are your strengths! Get up behind them, inside and low. You’re a shadow on the field, they see nothing until it’s too late – that’s it, Effie! Well done! Again! AGAIN!” 

A dagger whistled through the air, thwacking into the wood just to the side of Cullen’s left ear. 

Effie stood by the straw men, breathing hard, glaring at the commander. 

Without speaking, he gripped the hilt and tugged the knife out of the wall. He tapped the blade against his palm as he sauntered over to her. He held it out. 

“Perhaps we pick this back up in the morning.” 

Her expression said she’d been waiting for a scolding. When it didn’t come, she broke out into a wide grin. 

“I suppose this means we have to go belittle your maneuvers now?” 

“Why you little –” He grabbed her, mussing up her already unkempt hair as she struggled. 

“Cullen, quit it!” 

Laughing, he released her. “Go. Get cleaned up. I’ll let Josephine know you’ll be along shortly.” 

“I’ll make sure to be a few minutes late, just so she gives you _the look_.” So saying, she stuck her tongue out at him and trotted off.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which the scars of Adamant linger**

Adamant. The Fade. 

On the surface, a useful crash-course in watching her own back. 

Deeper – _no, don’t think on it._

But Effie could not block it forever. 

She found Varric by the great hearth in the main hall. 

He looked up as she approached, gave a sad sort of smile, then went back to staring at the flames. 

Tentatively, Effie sat next to him on the bench. A couple times, she opened her mouth to speak, found no words. 

Eventually, Varric said, “I don’t blame you, kid.” 

Again, Effie tried to speak, but her throat was burning too greatly to have much success. 

Varric sighed. “I don’t think you could’ve stopped Hawke if you’d wanted to. Once he gets an idea in his head, he just…well, anyway.” 

“He said goodbye. To you.” Effie cleared her throat. “I mean, he told me to tell you goodbye. And then he…he saved us.” 

Varric made a choking sound that might have been a laugh. “Y’know, somehow I doubt those were his last words.” 

“Well, he also said something like, ‘spiders, why is it always spiders’.” 

“And then threw himself at some kinda million-eyed monster?” 

She nodded. 

“Yeah. That sounds more like him…fuck, Eff. I’m going to miss him.” 

Together, they sat, staring into the dancing, crackling flames. 

 

She found herself wandering Skyhold after that, somehow ending up by the merchant stalls down by the stables. 

She was running a finger along the beautifully sharp edge of a great axe, thinking about how much Bull would be just as pleased as punch to have a weapon named for dragon slaying, when she heard the dull _thunk_ of wood being chopped behind her. 

She turned. 

Not far from the stall, Blackwall was tossing aside two halved logs, balancing another atop a stump, then bringing his axe down upon it, neatly cleaving it in two. 

He had stripped down to his once-white undershirt, now darkly stained with sweat and straining across his back as he bent to add the chopped wood to a growing pile. 

Hurriedly, Effie nodded to the merchant, then tried to sneak away. 

“Someone I knew one described Adamant to me.” 

_Fuck._ Effie turned back. 

He still wasn’t looking at her, but there was no one else around he could be talking to. 

He raised his axe. 

“‘Adamant is, and always will be, the Order. A guardian on the edge of the abyss.’” 

_Thwack_. 

“‘The lone soul that stares into oblivion and doesn’t waver.’” 

He took another log, thudded it down on the stump, harder than he probably intended. Arms bulging, he brought the axe down once more with a vicious swing. The log split and fell to either side of the stump. 

Breathing hard, Blackwall straightened, finally looking at Effie. 

“That’s what Warden-Commander Clarel tried to be. What they all tried to be. None of the Wardens we saw wavered. They gave their lives willingly. They died for _us_. And Corypheus twisted their sacrifice to make it his own.” 

Effie wondered if she’d ever seen Blackwall look so brutal before. Ferocious, yes, but enraged? 

It was difficult meeting his angry gaze. 

“That’s why he has to die.” 

Blackwall thunked the axe down into the stump, embedding its deadly edge. 

“You’ll get no argument from me. There’s no one to blame but Corypheus. Even Clarel’s intentions were righteous. Her desire to protect was so great, it lead her astray. It’s not right,” he growled, “to want to do good, to _be good_ , and have that turned against you.” 

“Yeah, well…nothing’s perfect.” 

They stood there, sharing the space. Blackwall looked as if he would say something else. But then, wrenching the axe back out of the stump, he turned and stalked back to the stables.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which the Spy Master and Ambassador ambush the Commander and Inquisitor**

“Inquisitor, may I just say…” 

It was the first war table meeting that Effie had been to since Adamant. She looked up to find Josephine regarding her with a mix of concern and admiration. 

“May I just say how impressed I am with how you’re managing everything. Your willingness to throw yourself into anything we ask of you –” 

“Chairs, daggers, smiling when what you really want to do is throw a punch…” said Cullen. 

“Yes, of course,” said Josephine, smiling. “All of that, and more.” 

Effie eyed her advisors warily. “You’re being too nice. What’s wrong? What’s happening?” 

Leliana gave a soft laugh. “It appears you are learning more than we might wish.” 

Effie turned to her. “Leliana – my favorite. Talk to me.” 

The spy master tilted her head. “You will remember us speaking of certain rumors concerning the Empress Celene.” 

“Sure. I asked if we could send a nice letter letting her know that someone was going to try assassinating her. Cullen shot me down.” 

“And with good reason,” said Leliana smoothly, before Cullen could interject. “Well, it appears that we may need to take more…persuasive measures.” She looked at Josephine. 

“We’re looking into the possibility of meeting with the Empress in a rather short amount of time,” said the ambassador. 

“A meeting?” asked Effie. A meeting would be fairly straightforward, however, and did not account for the advisors’ hedging now. 

“Not quite,” said Leliana. 

It suddenly occurred to Effie that she was not the only one that the spy master and ambassador were dancing around. Cullen, too, was darting suspicious glances between the two women. 

“Soooo…” 

“There is to be a ball,” said Josephine. 

“At the Winter Palace,” said Leliana. 

“We have acquired invitations...” 

“...And will be attending within a fortnight.” 

“A _ball_?” squeaked Effie. 

“At the Winter Palace?” bellowed Cullen.


End file.
